


What's Mine Is Yours

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Possession, Sadomasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8493328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bill needs to teach Ford a lesson. Ford needs to find a way out. PWP.





	

Bill kicked his legs against Ford's shoulder and cackled. "Yeah, just like that. Lower—lower! Perfect!"   
  
Ford's nose was touching the ground. He could still smell copper. He tried to focus on the fresh smell of petrichor and pine trees, instead.  
  
"Now," Bill said. "Say it." He disappeared from Ford's shoulder, reappearing just in front of Ford's flushed face, the tip of his cane touching the grass. 

Ford swallowed the thick lump in his throat. He was hyper-aware of his erection rubbing against his pants and hated that this was only making it worse, burning him up from the inside out. He dug his fingers into the earth to keep from reaching between his legs. "I'm nothing without you." 

  
Bill sighed with pleasure. "Good boy." 

Ford recoiled at that; the words made him want to laugh, a manic tension twisting just under his lungs. He took a deep breath and held it. Bill tapped the top of his head with the cane.   
  
"Hey-hey-hey, you're not done, yet. C'mon. Before I die from old age! I mean, that won't happen for another five hundred trillion years or so, if ever, so I'm in the clear, but you're not! Say the rest."   
  
Ford wanted to go home and clean the blood off. He wanted to touch himself. He wanted to reach up and throttle Bill, for all the good that would do. What he did was let out his breath, shakily, and say, "I'm sorry for ever doubting you. I am..." He narrowed his eyes and chewed his tongue. Bill snapped his fingers impatiently. "I am not worthy of your brilliance, and I will not question your methods again."  
  
Bill's laugh sent shivers down Ford's spine. "Perfect! Just perfect. That's my brilliant vessel. Alright, go ahead and jerk off. I'll just be here. Watching. That's what you want, right? No no, don't sit up. You have enough room from where you are." 

Ford hesitated. Bill was right, of course. He always was. But that didn't mean Ford was going to just cave to him, like he was a—well, a puppet. When he didn't move, Bill sighed, a noise that was more gleeful than it should've been.  
  
"Aw, Fordsy, don't tell me you're shy now! How many times have I seen it?" He snapped his fingers and the button to Ford's pants turned into a beetle and fell onto the grass; it twitched, then scurried away. The change of pressure against his cock made Ford almost moan, but he caught it in his throat, cutting it short. When he continued to stay still, Bill took a fistful of Ford's hair and jerked his face up. "What's the problem?" he asked. Ford tensed. "Do you need a little...assistance?" His eye glowed, and panic lanced through Ford.  
  
"No! No." He reached between his legs, palming himself, hating the surge of arousal that went through him at the simple touch. He shut his eyes and shuddered, slipping the zipper down and taking his cock out. The tip was wet with precome. "I'll do it."  
  
"You don't have to pout about it," Bill said. He gave Ford's hair another tug, then let it go and sat back, hovering above the ground and resting his cane against his knees. "You know," he said, as Ford began to stroke himself, "it bums me out when you get all whiny about this stuff. I've told you a hundred times—you can't make an omelette without breaking a few dozen eggs!"  
  
Ford stopped to stare at Bill, his anger, which had been bubbling just beneath his skin, rising up. "My shirt is covered in blood. You don't get to use that metaphor, Bill." 

Bill froze. The trees, which had been swaying in the night air, froze. "What did you just say?"  
  
Ford had no idea if it would be better to back down now and, in fact, barely had the presence of mind to decide one way or the other. He was exhausted, had no idea how long Bill had been him, ached all over, and might no longer have a research partner. He swallowed. "This isn't making an omelette, Bill. Whatever you've had me do—whatever I've done—you took it too far." Bill stayed perfectly frozen; even his pupil didn't shift, pinned in place to stare directly into Ford's eyes. "Surely you're smart enough to realize that."  
  
Bill blinked. He seemed to relax; if he could smile, perhaps he would. His eye crinkled in the way it did when he was pleased. Maybe this had all been a test—maybe Bill  _wanted_  Ford to prove himself, prove that he was his own person, able to stand up to Bill when he made a poor choice. "Oh? 'Surely I'm smart enough'? Ford. Stanford. Fordsy, baby. Are you hearing yourself? Here. Let me help you hear yourself." His eye flickered, pulling up Ford from a few moments ago:  _I'm nothing._  "You hear that?"  
  
Ford flushed, staring at himself.  
  
He played it again:  _I'm nothing. I am not worthy of your brilliance. I'm nothing. Nothing._  "Ford? Do you hear that? That's you saying you're nothing, compared to me. Because you," he began to glitch, his color flickering between yellow and red, his body growing, " _are_  nothing! You are a pathetic little meatbag who would be sticking your nose down the buttcrack of the Earth if it weren't for me!  _I_  give you purpose! Do you understand? Without me,  _you are worthless!_ "   
  
He froze again, then blinked back into his normal size. Ford was shaking terribly, and flinched when Bill touched a fingertip to his chin, lifting it. "So how are we going to get that through your thick skull? Hm? Got any ideas in that big, beautiful head of yours?"  
  
Ford's mouth was dry. He knew the answer Bill wanted to hear. "No."  
  
"That's perfect," Bill said. "Because I do. First off: You're going to reintroduce your big, beautiful head to the ground, and you're going to grovel for forgiveness and kiss my feet. Then you're going to go home and think about what I can do to you. At any time. For any reason. And you're going to love it just as much as you have from the very beginning. Understand?"  
  
Ford rested his hands on the ground and bent into a bow. "I understand." 

"Good," Bill said. "Now, chop chop. Get to the groveling." He dropped to the ground; the sounds of the night returned, strangely loud, seeming to echo. He had landed a couple of feet away from Ford, which was too far for him to simply lean forward and kiss. He could stand up and close the gap, but that would be almost more humiliating than crawling, and would certainly make Bill teleport further away and make his insinuated order an explicit one.   
  
Ford's pulse was in his throat. Bill had made it clear tonight that he was not to be trifled with. If Ford was going to find a way out of his deal—this  _mind-numbingly foolish_  deal—he would have to try his best not to anger Bill. He cleared his throat. "Forgive me," he said. He hunched his shoulders and ducked his face, pressing his nose into the ground. "I've...been a fool. It's like you said—I am only a human. There are things I don't...could never...understand." He lifted his hips, revolted at the way it brought his cock back into his awareness; it had never gone entirely flaccid, and hung warmly between his thighs. He shuddered and licked his lips. "Please," he said. "Forgive me, Bill."   
  
He began to crawl forward, shuffling his knees and clutching the grass in nervous fistfuls as he did. Heat seeped down his neck; sweat pooled in the small of his back. When he was close enough to Bill to lean in and kiss his feet, he hesitated. Perhaps it was that which made Bill touch the tip of his cane to Ford's forehead, push his face up, and hover back several more feet. Ford cringed.  
  
"You can do better," Bill said, utterly gleeful.   
  
Ford's cock twitched.  _Not now,_  he thought, looking down. The sleeves of his coat were black, drenched in blood. His hands looked more freakish than ever, stained with blood and cut in several places. A cut on the back of his left hand was still oozing blood, a lazy trickle.   
  
"C'mon, Fordsy."  
  
Ford shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to crawl again, his cock stiffening as he went, his random aches and pains growing with each movement. "It's like you said. I'm nothing. I...I don't deserve to have you as my mentor. I am like scum compared to you." This time, when he stopped in front of Bill, he didn't lift his head or try to kiss his feet. He needed to wait for Bill to let him do it. "Please, if you could find it in your...heart to forgive me, I won't ever doubt you again."   
  
"Ooo, that's good. I like that. Find it in my heart, huh? I bet I could do that." He tapped a foot: There. Permission.  
  
Ford leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Bill's foot. It was so small that he could have easily taken it in his mouth and bitten down; the thought crossed his mind. Instead, he left his lips there, barely brushing it, letting the strange static that always seemed to emanate from Bill's body tingle his mouth, his face. It worked its way between his legs, and his pulse followed it there, quick and heavy.   
  
"Good," Bill said, drawing the word out. "Oh, that is just  _peachy._  Look at you. You are  _loving_  this, huh? Aren't you, Sixer?"  
  
"Yes," Ford said. He turned his face and pressed a gentle kiss to Bill's other foot. He told himself he had no other choice: He had only the slightest inkling about Bill's full capacity for evil. There was no point in risking everything to spare himself this indignity. "I..." He swallowed hard. He knew what Bill wanted to hear. Ford just didn't want to hear himself say the words. He was afraid that he had no way of knowing how sincere it would be. "I love serving you." 

Bill shivered, the edges of his body jabbing at the air in glitches. His eye drooped, like he was going into a trance. "Say it again."  
  
Ford licked his lips. "I love serving you," he said, and sucked on the tip of Bill's foot. "But I'm...weak. Greatness can seem terrifying to those who are small, like I am."   
  
Bill tapped Ford's jaw with his foot. "That  _is_  true. You're a tiny blip in the cosmos, I basically  _am_  the cosmos..." He lifted into the air again, bracing his cane between both of his hands and studying Ford. "So give me a reason to forgive you."   
  
Ford hesitated. The easiest way, he knew, would be to beg Bill to possess him and do whatever he wanted with his body. He couldn't trust Bill with that. Not tonight. Not when he might use that to spite Ford for his fear. Finally, he lifted his face and met Bill's gaze. "Tell me what to do," he said, "and I'll do it."   
  
Bill didn't answer. He lifted a little higher into the air and began to circle Ford, taking him in. He tapped his cane lightly along Ford's body, poking at his head and shoulders, his back, his sides, and jabbing at his thighs. Then, quite suddenly, he swung it against Ford's ass. Ford jumped in pain and hissed through his teeth. The pain was  _sharp_ , vivid even after the fact. "Okay," Bill said, as if that one strike was enough to satisfy his curiosity. "Deal. Go home."  
  
"...what?"  
  
"Go home," he repeated. "Oh—you won't be needing those anymore. Don't want to keep any evidence around!" He waved his cane and Ford's clothes burst into flames. Ford screamed and fumbled to fling them off, but before he could do more than flail, the flames went out, leaving him naked, the hair on his body singed. Ford shivered in the night air. His nipples hardened, taut and pink. He looked up. "Well?" Bill said. "Go home!"  
  
"That's...all you want me to do?"   
  
Bill shrugged. "What, did you think there was gonna be an obstacle course or something? Go ahead. Let's see if you can find your way home in the dark." Ford, with no other choice but to obey, started to push himself to his feet. "Oh, no no no," he said, tapping Ford on the shoulder. "On your knees. That's a champ."  
  
Ford, resigned, lowered back down to his hands and knees and began to crawl. Bill stayed close to his right, watching him in silence. Ford had to move slowly, between the pain that still radiated through him and the twigs and rocks and who knew what else that littered the forest floor. Soon he wasn't just crawling, but hobbling, each breath laced with a soft noise of pain. He had an idea of where he was—the sound of running water was off to his left, and if he kept it there, he would eventually hit a hiking trail that would lead back to his home. Provided, of course, that he was in the forests of Gravity Falls, and not in another state.  
  
"So," Bill said, after Ford had crawled in silence for several minutes. "Tell me." He popped from one side of Ford to the other, reappearing with his hands cupped under his chin. "What do you wish I'd told you to do?" 

The question seemed to make the night compress; the air, which had been cool just a moment ago, became stifling against his skin.  _He doesn't know if I'm lying if he's not in my mind._  Of course, that required Ford to have a sharper insight into what he  _had_  wanted. Ford's mouth was dry.  
  
Bill tapped the base of his skull. "I didn't say you could stop, buddy."   
  
"Sorry," Ford said, an auto-pilot response. He started to crawl again, grimacing. Something slithered away in the night, startling him. He needed to focus. He was a long way from home, still, and he needed to get away from Bill, to  _think._  "I don't know," he said, finally. "I just wanted you to tell me what you wanted."   
  
"Boring! Oh, Fordsy, Fordsy, Fordsy. You're not a bore. You're my prodigy, remember?" He slid in front of Ford's face, edging back with each of Ford's movements, and grew until Ford would have to turn his head to see anything  _but_  Bill or the ground. The glow of his body cast everything in an unholy glow. "You can't hide your secrets from me. Tell me! It's more fun hearing you say the words."  
  
"I wanted..." Ford sucked in a sharp breath—his knee had come down right on a sharp twig. "I wanted you to tell me to—touch myself."   
  
"Oh, is that all? Heck, if you weren't so busy crawling along like the little bug you are, that's what you'd be doing anyway. You wouldn't need me at all!"  
  
He was just probing at this point, Ford knew. If Bill hadn't had to poke at him to get his answer, however, it would have been suspicious. He stopped and lowered his head, turning his face away from Bill. It wasn't a difficult act, mostly-sincere; he didn't think he would ever stop feeling ashamed of himself. "It's different when you watch," he said. "It makes me feel—powerful. Meaningful. And small, at the same time. Like a cog that's learned the significance of its place in the machine." He glanced up at Bill; a wave of relief washed through him when he saw that Bill's eye was drooping again, pleased with his answer. "But I know that you're the master technician—you could break the whole machine and annihilate every last bit of it until nothing was left. When you watch, I know that I'm not  _just_  a cog to you. That I'm special."  
  
"You like being special, huh?"  
  
Ford nodded. He began to ease back, sitting on his heels. He rested a hand on the inside of his thigh, not touching himself—not until Bill told him to—but framing his half-hard cock, presenting himself to Bill.  
  
"You are special, you know," Bill said, shrinking. Ford shut his eyes.  _Don't listen to him._  "I've never lied to you, Sixer. You are one-in-a-billion. You," he said, "are my favorite pupil, bar none. Just look at you!"  
  
 _Cheap flattery,_  came an angry voice in the back of Ford's mind.  _Don't listen to him! Tune it out!_  But there was something about Bill, when he was like this, that cut to the core of Ford, left him vulnerable and willing. It meant something to have a person see him for what he really was. He hadn't had that in a very long time.  
  
Bill touched Ford's lips. "My brilliant little puppet. Go ahead. I'll forgive you. I'm not even sure what you did anymore!"  
  
 _Don't listen to him, don't listen to him, don't listen to him._    
  
But Ford's body hadn't been his own for a long time. He reached between his legs and began to stroke; his knuckles ached just from that curled movement, and his wrist was unnaturally stiff. He hoped it wasn't sprained. Bill made a soft noise—not a laugh or a moan, but something in-between, a noise entirely unique to Bill that had slowly become Ford's Pavlovian bell. Please Bill, become pleased. He lifted his hips, jerking himself faster, the sound of his skin obscenely loud in the muffled forest.   
  
"Yeah, that's good, Ford. Make some noise. Let me hear how much you love this."  
  
Ford moaned.  
  
"Good boy," Bill said. "See? We don't have to fight." He stroked Ford's face, his hands making Ford's hair stick on end as they ruffled through it. "If you can just keep your cool, we can keep a good thing going." His thumbs traced down Ford's temples and stopped at the corner of his eyes. "Man, that looks fun. Is it fun? Huh? How do you feel?"  
  
Ford opened his mouth to answer.  
  
"You know what? I gotta know. You don't mind, right?"   
  
And, before Ford could say a word, Bill was inside of him. 

"Oh,  _wow,_  you are in a lot of pain. I love it!"   
  
Bill had him pinned in the back of his mind: Ford's senses were still his, but his body was under Bill's control, now. At the beginning, Bill had used it to walk Ford through tricky equations or mechanical dilemmas, and the sensation had been pleasantly surreal. Then, it had become Bill's favorite means of fucking Stanford. Now—Ford wanted out. He'd rather be hovering in the Mindscape, watching from the outside as his body was used by Bill. At least then he could look away.   
  
"Fuck," Bill said. He wrapped a hand around Ford's bad wrist and twisted; the pain shot through Ford, but all he could do was cry out. His body twitched. "This  _is_  good. You really are the best, Fordsy. Look at it! It loves it!" He gestured at Ford's cock, which was nearly touching the soft expanse of Ford's belly. The tip was flushed, needy.   
  
 _Touch it,_  Ford thought,  _for god's sake, just touch it._    
  
Bill cackled, his laughter twitchy and loose in Ford's chest. "You really think I'm an idiot, don't you? Did you think I didn't know this is what you wanted?" Bill brought Ford's hand up to his face and sank his teeth into his thumb, hard and fast enough to break the skin. Ford yelped and tried to pull away helplessly. Bill moaned and slowly lapped the blood away from the jagged wound. "That's what separates us, Ford," he said, panting. He grabbed the head of Ford's cock and squeezed, then pressed the tip of his finger against the opening. He'd tried to push fingers inside of Ford's cock once, and discovered it wasn't possible without causing Ford an intense amount of anguish. This was just a tease, reminding Ford of who was in control. "You have no idea what you really want. But I do. Here. Let me show you!"  
  
He slammed Ford's face into the ground and lifted his hips until his knees were off the ground. Ford's legs immediately began to shake from fatigue. Bill, reveling in Ford's discomfort, reached between his legs and started to grind his fingers against Ford's taint. Bill moaned immediately; so did Ford, the sound echoing in his mind, another memory for Bill to hoard. He started to thrust, biting down on Ford's forearm and humping his hand, pushing harder and harder against the sensitive skin until it was  _aching,_  tender and sore and perfectly sensitive. Sweat dripped onto the grass. Then, without prelude, Bill pushed Ford's hand back and forced a finger inside. Ford's orgasm was building fast; he twisted, struggling to fuck himself on his own hand, but he  _couldn't._  He had to let Bill finish him when and how he wanted.  
  
Bill was laughing almost nonstop, now, the sound broken only by Ford's desperate gasps and Bill's moans, dressed in Ford's voice. "That's right," he said, "that's right, Ford, you wanna come?" Ford's feet buckled under him and Bill collapsed, but that didn't deter him. He rolled onto his back, lifting his knees and propping himself up on an elbow. He didn't, however, push Ford's fingers inside of himself again, pausing with the tips barely touching the sensitive skin. Ford's body was shivering, overexerted and overwhelmed.   
  
"Yes," Ford gasped. "Bill, you know—yes."  
  
Bill grabbed Ford's cock and started to pump it, a sensation that always felt  _wrong,_  too familiar to be a stranger's hand, too uncoordinated to be himself. He scratched Ford's other hand up his stomach, across his chest and arms, leaving pink welts of pain.   
  
Bill had said that the difference between them was that Bill knew what Ford wanted—but Ford knew exactly what he wanted, and he knew what  _Bill_  wanted. He pressed hard against the restraints in his mind. "Please, Bill," he said. " _Please._ "  
  
It didn't take anything else: they came, his body neither Bill's nor Ford's, an amalgamation of pain and pleasure, the sound of Bill's triumphant laughter echoing, echoing, echoing.  
  
*  
  
The forest glowed with the soft pink of the sun. Ford opened his eyes, but did not move, letting himself readjust. The shadows slanted to the west. Perhaps Bill had only taken the one night from him. Slowly, Ford sat up. He was covered in mud, blood, come, sweat, and bits of grass. A tick rested on the inside of his thigh. Ford touched his face, his neck, his arms. He wasn't sure that he could make the walk home.   
  
"Bill?" he called into the peace of the sunrise. His chest was tight with anticipation, waiting for his answer.  
  
It didn't come.   
  
Good, Ford thought. His body felt used and weak, pathetic. His mind, however, felt as honed and sharp as a knife.   
  
He had work to do. 


End file.
